The winds blew warm, over hopeful fields
The stalks still stood, the harvest yields
The cider pressed, it steams in cups
With cinnamon sticks, we lap it up
Against the cold, that comes so fast
November winds, they fly so fast
From the East, they smell of sea
And snow to come, the dark for me
But one last glow, the table round
The souls they gather, at the sound
Of children’s laughter, glasses full
Of joy and mirth, they ate their fill
But now we scatter to the winds
Blown apart from warm heart kin
To search away from sacred vows
And honor not what god endows
My Gifted Life 